Grieve
by Skylarcat
Summary: Sometimes a heart grieves for what it cannot have. Huddy


**Title:** Grieve  
**Author:** Skylarcat  
**Classification:** Huddy, One-Shot  
**Rating**: PG 13  
**Feedback:** Sure. Why not?  
**Summary:** Just a small "what if" piece. It doesn't really follow a time-line, however, Rachel doesn't exist. Also, due to my disappointment over the finale this isn't a happy huddy fic. Reading this might make you want to go kutner yourself. The lyric I begin with and end with is from a Peter Gabriel song, "I Grieve".  
**Note:** House and Cuddy are characters that belong to David Shore, Fox Broadcasting, and Shore Z Productions and Bad Hat Harry Productions. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.

"**And I can't handle this.  
I grieve…for you.  
You leave…me."**

He sits at her desk, the room dark, empty, lifeless; a reminder of what he has become; a shell of a man. Here, he drums his fingers along the cold wood of her desk, the one that represented a secret shared between the two; a love born, and housed, and ultimately lost.

Before him sits a small plastic cup, next to that a bottle of bourbon. In his hand, one small photo.

He stares at her office, committing it to memory. These four walls have witnessed so many of their disputes over the years; their trials and tribulations. It was only fitting that he would do it here. Besides, his place is too sterile, too vacant of any real emotions. It is a place where he spent most of life avoiding attachments, alone, and drowning in his own self-form of misery. And her place had since been packed up; her belongings neatly organized and placed into storage. Further, her place had represented a haven for him over the years. This act could not be committed there.

Her sister had managed to put things in order during the first week of her visit. Boxing up her belongings, signing whatever paper-work that needed to be signed, and he had avoided her, never being a people-person, and in times like these, shutting-down even more.

On the last day of her visit, she had stopped by his apartment, but he had not answered. Eventually, she gave up and left the small vanilla envelope outside his door.

He hadn't opened the envelope right away. Instead occupied him-self by pouring another glass of bourbon, downing the drink with one swallow. And then he had poured another and then another, until he lost count, until he could not take the envelope mocking him any longer and he had to open it.

He had emptied the contents out onto the coffee table. Inspecting the few lone items; among them had been a necklace. One she had often wore, claiming it brought her good luck, and he would mock her, making some wise-crack at her expense. The memory had caused him to push the necklace to the side, angrily, knocking a small photo to the floor in the process.

He had picked the photo up off the floor, brushing away the bits of dirt, and eyeing the photo carefully for a moment. They had been at some hospital event, neither noticing the camera. In the photo, he wore a mischievous grin, and her expression suggested that she had not been amused.

He had placed the photo back down on the coffee table and devoured another drink. It was all he could do to avoid breaking down.

For the first two days, he had stopped going to work, had sat alone in his apartment, staring at the picture; a million memories playing throughout his mind of events and words that went unspoken. He had stopped shaving, had stopped answering the phone. The world outside ceased to exist.

On the fourth day, Wilson had dropped by, but he had not answered the door. Wilson could not fix this, only she could, and she was gone; and it was the ultimate ditch.

On the seventh day, he had managed to leave his apartment in the middle of the night, forgetting his coat in the process, perhaps from simply no longer caring.

It was winter and a light snow had covered the ground. The cold winter air had snapped its teeth at his exposed skin, but he had not cared, only pausing once outside her house, staring at the 'For Sale' sign planted within her yard, and then had carefully continued his journey.

He had entered the hospital a short time later, no one paying him any mind. He had always been one to make his own hours, coming and going as he pleased. It had not taken him long to gather everything he needed.

He had lied and said the medication was for a patient. His last stopped had been his office, knowing he kept a bottle of bourbon in his bottom desk drawer. And then he had slipped undetected into her office.

Which was where he was sitting at the moment; alone in her dark empty office, drumming his fingers along her desk and staring at the small plastic cup that held an assortment of pills. A death cocktail, a mixture of pain pills, sleeping pills, and anti-nausea pills. His knowledge as a doctor benefited him in regards to knowing the right amount to produce the desired outcome, with the least side-effects.

He knows he will slip into unconsciousness before the pain of his kidneys and internal organs shutting down could be really experienced. He knows that the anti-nausea meds would help aid in the absorption of the other medication, and he knows eventually his heart would stop beating.

He opens the bottle of bourbon and recalls her last night. She had been driving back from his place after an argument. He knows he should have stopped her from walking out the door, but he had allowed her to go. She never saw the other car coming. The other driver had been drinking and walked away without a scratch on him. Life was unfair, this he knows, just as he knows that if he ever thought he was miserable before, it was nothing compared to a life without her, but he also knows he will be joining her soon enough.

He picks up the small plastic cup and offers, "I will be seeing you soon" then drinks up.

"**So hard to move on  
Still loving what's gone.  
Said life carries on…  
And on."**


End file.
